


Crossed Threads

by rainer76



Category: Farscape/SG1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76





	Crossed Threads

_Daniel._

Vala's mouth stretches with a prism of delight, a brief glimpse of the back of his head, and she's pushing through the crowd with all due haste.  The statue rests beside the length of her thigh. It's too bulky to tuck down her bodice but having Daniel meant having  _pockets,_  and there had to be somewhere on his frame where Vala could stash it.  The security detachment is hot on her heels.  The crowd parts, and Vala catches sight of him again.  Her steps falter.  It's not Daniel.  It's the other one - Mitchell - and those two boys needed collars, something a little more flattering than dog-tags.  No bother, no worry, her smile firmly fixed as she takes him in and....something's not right.  Very nice.  But definitely  _not_ the uniform of SG1.  Not unless they had made drastic changes to the style, and if they had, the boys in wardrobe ought to be  _applauded._

 _Nice out-fit,_  Mitchell had drawled.   _Right back at you,_  Vala thinks.  She likes pretty things, but mostly she prefers them with a sense of  _value_...like when they can save her delicate hide.  Vala picks up the pace, swings around Mitchell's back and plants herself squarely in front; burying her hands inside his coat, sweeping the lining, because there had to be some kind of compartment.  Zip?  Button?  Hidey-hole?   _Something._   "Hullo," Vala flashes him a hundred watt smile.

"Jesus H Christ."

Not the reaction she expected.  He takes two stumbling steps backward and Vala sticks to him like glue.  Pockets?  What type of man didn't have pockets?  She frisks him, one hand seated on the back of his pants and murmurs,  "Now isn't the time to play hard to get."

His mouth is agape, and then his eyes shutter down, frosted ice, he reverses direction and takes a step forward.  Vala's arm is jerked behind her back, twisted upward.  Mitchell sidles in, yanks her the remaining distance until they're flush against one another, thigh to thigh, groin to groin.  Leather and musk and the barest hint of something volatile.

His hardware isn't the same - the weapon strapped to his thigh - Vala comes to the realization with her hand still inside his coat, clutching the stolen relic while she reconsiders.  She keeps her voice pleasant, taps the statue against his back.  "I couldn't convince you to stuff this down your pants, could I?  You could do with a bit of oomph."

His mouth turns downward, Mitchell-with-a-question mark pulls back enough to allow space between them, fingers brushing against a comm device on his black-t.  "Aeryn?"

Vala squirms, glances behind her.  The security detail is fanning out.  She can see the chapp'ai behind the 'Mitchell-lookalike impersonator', a semi-circle framed behind a water-feature. 

There's silence, then the comm squawks, words and tone flowing between them in an incomprehensible wave, punctuated by the occasional glottal stop. The man relaxes visibly, his grip loosening on her arm, tension flowing out of him with each spoken word.  It's as good as gibberish as far as Vala's concerned.  She leans against his chest, wriggles her wrist until he gets the hint and lets her go.  She stays there, face buried against his torso, both of her arms encircling him.  Not Mitchell, and that wisecrack about genetics has come back to haunt her.  "Those gentlemen behind me are not very nice.  If they were to discover us in possession of say...a valuable piece of artwork, they would take it out of your leather-clad ass.  Be nice, and gave us a kiss."

  
His voice is resigned.  "I could have sworn I didn't fall down a wormhole today."


End file.
